


aubade

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 16:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14084838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: He wakes up earlier but this wasn’t strange.





	aubade

"There was one summer returning over and over  
there was one dawn  
I grew old watching"

 

- 

 

He wakes up earlier but this wasn’t strange. He never slept well in hotel rooms but this was early even for him, outside still dark and quiet. Xabi turns on his side, stares at the silent red numbers on the alarm clock spelling out 4:48 am. He didn’t want to turn around, so he closes his eyes, listens to Steven breathing long and slow beside him. He’d half expected Steven to snore, but he doesn’t. Xabi wondered if he could go back to sleep, or if he should get up and slip away now, under cover of darkness. It makes him almost smile, wry, not from the thought of actually doing it- Steven waking up to an empty bed while he’s back in his own hotel room, safely ensconced in better sheets and ordering room service- but just. It’d simply amused him, because he would be leaving like a cliche, a thief in the night, a guilty husband.  
Steven turns in his sleep and Xabi looks at him, automatically.  
He wishes the dawn would come faster, and before he can convince himself not to, he reaches out and touches Steven’s face. Just lightly. Under cover of darkness. Then he settles beside him and closes his eyes.

-

 

Steven had pushed him at the bar. That’s not how it normally started, though normal at this point had somewhat an arbitrary definition. The bar was posh and expensive even by their standards, electric lights making everything a weird blue color. Everyone looked pale and sickly, and also impossibly old. Xabi remembers ruefully their bar hopping days from years ago. For some reason everything he recalled had a golden sort of haze to it- he’d read somewhere that memories were never accurate or even real, just extensions and creations from past feeling. Golden light, sunshine tinted beer, Steven, red faced and getting progressively more shouty and handsy until he ended up with his arm around Xabi, too close.  
Xabi thinks, that’s how it’s supposed to go.

Instead everyone had milled about, getting steadily more drunk but also progressively more aimless, lacking a victory in the present to push things into a celebration. Someone breaks into song- it sounded like Carra- and everyone joined in, those who didn’t know the words singing about as loudly as those who did, and for a minute it felt so strongly of nostalgia it made Xabi freeze. But after that it quickly disbanded, and people set off and left for other haunts, some to visit old bars in Liverpool, others back to their hotels for the night. Xabi wonders if they felt old, or if they simply dispelled the feeling and got on with their lives. He thinks not.

Steven’s still sitting at the bar at the end of it all, shirt unbuttoned and legs stretched out in front of him. He’s wearing a white undershirt underneath, which amused Xabi. He takes the last shot from Steven, who complains half heartedly, and downs it. Xabi’s only aware of the brief flash of heat when his hand covers Steven’s a moment later, with the whiskey burning in his mouth. The whole evening hit him then, suddenly, unexpectedly. Steven looks at him, eyebrow raised and too drunk to protest. Xabi wished he knew what to say, but the words don’t come. He felt like an audience to his own body, uncomfortably distanced. Steven takes his hand, clasps it, mumbling something about the pitch, the length of grass, or something about the under 18s.

“Stevie,” he tries to cajole, but it only ends up infuriating Steven. Somehow that was the wrong thing to say. Steven stands up, hands heavy on Xabi’s shoulders. Xabi tries to put an arm around him, and Steven pushes.

Xabi steps back. Their eyes meet. He thinks, ah. He meets Steven’s eyes and the useless longing for words evaporates. He steps close, and wordless, helps Steven out of the bar.

 

-

 

He manages to fall asleep for almost an hour and wakes up to Steven looking at him. Steven smirks, eye still half lidded from sleep. The sun’s still not up yet, but Xabi feels he could discern a change in the light outside anyway. A gradual lightening, giving shadow to everything around the room. He half wants to pull the curtain aside and let the sunlight fall on Steven. It felt like a vague hope, that it would soften things, make the wrinkles around his eyes more bearable.  
“Morning,” Steven says. He rolls away and sits up, blinking and wincing.  
“Hangover?” Xabi asks, jokingly. He passes Steven the bottled water on the bedside table. Steven shakes his head, rueful.  
“My fuckin’ leg,” Steven says. He pulled back the sheets and showed Xabi a blossoming bruise, spectacularly purple and garish. Xabi laughs, and Steven grins at him.  
“Some friendly,” Steven says, scratching his head. He looks at Xabi, “Could be from you?”  
Xabi raises an eyebrow. “It’s not. I never tackled you, Gerrard.” It doesn’t wipe the vaguely accusing look from Steven’s face. Xabi looks away. It wasn’t betrayal, he tells himself. It stopped the tired old cogs from turning, but just barely. He wanted the whole scene to stop acting itself out like a cliche. He still couldn’t meet Steven’s eyes, but this time it’s Steven who puts a hand on his face. Gently. He turns Xabi’s chin, thumb warm against the stubble, and Xabi kisses him.

When he pulls back and opens his eyes, the sun’s filtered gently through the crack in the curtains, turning a strip of carpet to gold.

-

Afterward Xabi’s trying to comb his hair with the shitty plastic comb from the hotel bathroom, squinting at the muggy mirror. Steven’s already dressed, leaning back on the disrupted bedding, switching channels on the television, when he comes out of the bathroom. Xabi tugs at his collar. The clock on the nightstand read 7:30 am, harsh sunlight illuminating the film of dust over it. Xabi could see thumbprints, and mentally makes a note to opt for a better hotel at least, no matter how drunk they get next time. He goes to sit next to Steven, on the same bed. Their hands touch, as Xabi meant them to. Steven doesn’t look at him, frowning thoughtfully at the advertisements on the television like he was genuinely interested in a 99.99 deal for a five in one power blender.  
Xabi sighs, and Steven looks at him, smiling a little as though chastised. He wanted to touch Steven’s face again, but the room seemed too bright now for that, too bright for gestures that have unambiguous meanings.

He says instead, “Let’s get breakfast.” and he looks at Steven, in the eyes, and holds his gaze. He’s not sure what he wanted, but if there’s one thing he understands after all these years, it’s-

“Alright,” Steven says. He switches off the television. They leave the room together.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes in the beginning from Louise Glück, thanks for reading!


End file.
